ANBU Wolf
by Esashar
Summary: A collection of one-shots about Kakashi's ANBU life, in no particular chronological order. Some will be light hearted, some will be darker. Some will have prominent overtones of slash YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED and some will be more subtle about it. Each story will focus on a different secondary character alongside the Copy-Ninja.
1. One Hundred Hungry Ghosts

One Hundred Hungry Ghosts

One figure outlined against the glare of the rising sun. One watcher in the shadows, awaiting the other's arrival with a patience that should be expected in a person trained solely to complete the given task. The wait may take hours, it may take days. But the waiting figure does not stir. And now the wait is over. He looks up into his comrade's face and is blinded by the rising fire smouldering behind. He shields his eyes but the crimson vision does not fade. Twice he blinks; then nearly fails to catch his friend's body as it falls. For one of them darkness descends, while the other remains dazzled by the brilliant red light and the overwhelming stench of blood.

His task had been to wait. To take news to the nearest outpost should the mission fail. The mission itself had been assigned to the other. It had been to take one hundred unwanted lives. Unwanted, that is, by all save five old men and twenty-two young, seventeen old ladies and thirty young women, fourteen little girls and eight small boys; plus four lives never fully realised, who died in a warm, safe place, ignorant of all such evil. Among these numbers were sixty-two elite, content to protect only what they called their own. And they had done so in no unskilled manner. They had nearly succeeded in saving a few. Nearly succeeded in killing their opponent. He would die on the journey back, surely, but this was no consolation to them. None of them had ever taken any great interest in politics. They had been content to lead a hundred innocent, unobtrusive and in their own small yet noble ways, worthy lives. Now they are destined to walk the barren path to the underworld; one hundred hungry ghosts.

* * *

"Damn it Genma, I said I'm fine!"

"Well, damn it Kakashi, I know you're not! Cut the crap before I sedate you, and in the condition you're in right now, you know you couldn't stop me."

Kakashi gritted his teeth. There was a blur of silver and red. Genma found himself looking up into the Copy-Ninja's livid, blood-red gaze and his pale, blood-streaked face. The ANBU was pinning him to the ground, holding a kunai to his throat. Genma wasn't particularly fazed. It wasn't the first time a heated exchange between the two of them had ended with the Copy-Ninja on top of him. What worried him more was the fact that the man's hand was shaking.

Genma had a senbon ready; all he needed was one chance to get it into Kakashi's neck. It would be better for everyone if the Hatake was unconscious right now. He felt the Jonin's grip weaken on the hilt of the blade, while Kakashi's Sharingan continued to bore into the back of his skull.

Genma's words were fractured by the effort of keeping the knife from pressing further into his throat. "For… Gods'… sakes… Kakashi. Close… that… damn… eye!"

The Copy-Ninja growled. It was not a sound of warning or admonition. It was pure, unbridled contempt. "The day one of my comrades sticks a laced senbon in my neck is the day I leave this godsforsaken job, for good."

And Genma could tell that this was no idle threat. Kakashi was close to the edge now. Not the edge of exhaustion. Well, that too – of course. But he was nearing the edge of his patience, his tolerance of everything. All the shit the world had thrown at him and here he was, two decades later: his life falling away drop by crimson drop; his world unravelling one wound at a time. Genma let the senbon fall from his grasp. He lifted one hand and guided Kakashi's shaking arm back down, gently removing the kunai from his faltering grip. The Jonin's eyes closed for a moment. Genma prayed he'd never find out what the man was thinking. There were some things that just couldn't be said; sometimes you just had to go on living – in ignorance.

But Kakashi had to live with the knowledge that every one of those villagers' pleading, defiant faces would earn him an eternity in the blackest depths of Hell. Greater than any flame of posthumous retribution was the relentless cold steel of lifelong regret; death by a thousand guilty cuts. Fuck it all. No one deserves that!

The man was barely conscious now, but the fire in his eyes had told Genma that as long as he was, not one of his injuries would be treated. Sometimes you needed to feel the blood flowing out of you, settling the score. The wounds on the outside were easier to live with. Or at the very least would ensure that you didn't have to live with the ones on the inside for long. Genma knew this; he knew that Kakashi wanted to suffer. And he knew that the Copy-Ninja was by no means taking the easy way out. To take one look at a village full of a hundred blameless faces, belonging to shinobi who'd nevertheless fight to the death to defend those they loved, then to turn around, rip the S-rank mission scroll in two and walk away – _that _would have been the easy way out. Until the punishment later, of course. For now Kakashi needed to suffer; it was all the redemption he'd ever receive.

The Tokubetsu Jonin whispered, "Yeah… I get it."

Then he paused. There was a moment of silence before he helped the man onto his back and sat beside him. Kakashi cringed with every motion and Genma didn't dare ask what was hurting him the most. He'd pass out soon, if not from the pain then from the exhaustion, if not from the exhaustion then from the blood loss, if not from the blood loss then from the simple fact that his dreams would be more torturous than reality – and torture was what he wanted. Through pain he would be cleansed. That was how it had to go. And then he'd put it all away somewhere. In some dark, impenetrable corner of his mind he'd place his hatred for the role he'd been given, so that he could face another day. So that he could get on with the next mission, finding a reason to hate it all once more. Never once blaming the system, keeping all the blame for himself. Fuck it all!

Rage flooded Genma's senses. It took control. "You selfish bastard! You selfish, self-righteous, self-sacrificing bastard!"

Genma raised his fist and brought it down hard. After all, senbon were not the only tools for ensuring a much needed rest. But Kakashi deflected the blow an inch away from his face with one injured hand. He didn't even blink. Sparks seemed to shoot between both shinobi's eyes. Then Genma raised his other hand and brought the retrieved senbon sharply into Kakashi's neck. The man's expression didn't change. True fury doesn't come by degrees. Genma removed the senbon and sat back. The Copy-Ninja's eyes closed, unadulterated rage still marking his deceptively juvenile features.

Then slowly, Genma reached up to Kakashi's hair. It hung down over his eyes, plastered to his brow with sweat and blood. He brushed it aside, fully exposing the ANBU's unmasked face. That face was beautiful; neither blood, nor dirt, nor disfiguring contempt would ever change that. It overwhelmed him. Genma pressed his lips hard against Kakashi's. Even the man's blood tasted too pure; as sweet as a guileless child's smile, with an aftertaste more bitter than a grieving father's tears. No one deserved to be born so perfect. Not in a world where perfection can be whetted, polished and sent to war. Sometimes, in a world like this, it's better not to be born at all.

He let his kiss linger, until all the blood coating Kakashi's lips was gone. Then he whispered into the unconscious man's ear, "I can be selfish too…"

* * *

Two figures outlined against the haze of the setting sun. One recumbent in the other's arms, being held with a tenderness that should be impossible in a person trained solely to kill. The journey back may take hours, it may take days. But the unconscious figure does not stir. The drug has seen to that. It has seen to many things. Three days of blackness where memories should have been. A faceless guilt, but no recollection of the countless dying faces that caused it. It has been decided that this is right. Whatever the consequences may be. Perhaps the past will be left behind, perhaps the ultimatum will be followed through. Perhaps this was always the intention.

This would be no consolation to those departed spirits who now seek only revenge. But to a people from whom everything has been taken, what consolation can still apply? Little comfort to them is the knowledge that – in the esteemed opinion of men too powerful and too foresighted to see the blood dripping from their own hands – their continued existence would have led to the deaths of thousands. Little does it help that their killer had no choice but to spare the phantom thousands and sacrifice the comparatively few instead. And certainly it will not bring them back to know that the events of this day would save hundreds of very real lives, people just like them. Because their killer would not slaughter again, not when there was another way, and sometimes even when there wasn't. A young man so blinded by the fear of losing those he loved, that he'd deafened himself to the cries of those to whom he was indifferent, had now been forged into a hero of mercy, compassion and famously unerring judgement. But what did they care? To them, and to that man himself, he would always be an irredeemable, heartless killer.

But he was forced to forget and to go on living; helping to move the future, day by day, a little further from the past. Redemption may never await him, and it may be that condemnation is no less than he deserves. But still, a reward must lie somewhere in striving never to make the same mistake more than once. Surely every person deserves more at their funeral than the pale, expectant faces of one hundred hungry ghosts. Surely everyone has the right, just once, to forget.


	2. A Dream Senpai

A Dream Senpai

Tenzo stood before his Senpai, flanked by the rest of his ANBU squad. He'd been in the organisation for three months now and his terror of the Copy-Ninja was yet to decrease. There was something about putting your life in the hands of a man who, with barely a thought, could permanently take it that unnerved the recruit. All ANBU were killing machines: mechanical, deadly, that was the idea. But Tenzo had the vague suspicion that killing machines who laughed with such unashamed, enchanting superiority even as they arrived three hours late for a dawn mission briefing and flattered you into paying for ramen _every single time _were to be feared for an entirely different reason. Killing you wasn't the only thing an ANBU like that could do on a whim. Tenzo had pledged his life – heart and soul – to his Senpai, and was now seriously wondering if he'd ever get any of those things back.

He snapped to attention, remembering his surroundings in time to catch the beginning of his Senpai's next sentence.

"Okay," said Kakashi, "it's a very simple system. If you do badly I get to give you a punishment."

The ANBU Captain smiled, with the self-satisfaction of one who'd had a job to do and had done it well. Still, there was a lingering hint of expectation in his gaze. Slowly, Tenzo raised his hand – hoping like hell that he hadn't missed anything important. Kakashi gave a slight inclination of his head. It took the recruit several seconds to realise that this was all the acknowledgment he was going to receive, as well as the only way to gauge his Senpai's attentiveness.

"Um… what if we do well, Senpai?"

Kakashi's smirk made Tenzo blush and it was all he could do not to look away.

"If you do well," the Copy-Ninja met each of their eyes in turn before settling on Tenzo, the only one who'd managed to hold his gaze. "If you do well, then you get to give _me_ a reward."

Oh Gods, that smile!

"That hardly seems fair!"

Tenzo looked around, trying to identify the source of this outburst, before realising with horror that it'd come from his own treacherous mouth. 'ANBU must always treat their superiors with respect, only then will they come to receive respect in kind.' Damn it.

"Clearly someone wants their punishment already." An Uchiha might have missed it, but Tenzo could've sworn he saw the Copy-Ninja wink.

If he'd been blushing before, then whatever colour Tenzo was now was off the visible spectrum. But he still refused to take his eyes off his Senpai's face, not yet realising that he couldn't have if he'd tried.

"I'm sorry, Senpai," Tenzo squeaked from somewhere within his own personal cloud of infrared shame.

The Captain's face grew stern. "What did I tell you is the first rule of making a mistake, Tenzo?"

As his humiliation deepened, Tenzo felt that perhaps the right answer would set him on the path to redemption.

"You said, 'True ANBU never apologise. They face their errors by accepting the consequences of their actions and resolving not to make the same mistake again.'"

This time, Kakashi's smile was purely canine, more demonically wolfish even than the blood-red face painted on his discarded ANBU mask.

"In that case," Kakashi responded, with a grin that chilled Tenzo to the bone even as he felt his skin burn, "you are going to accept your punishment right now and learn not to speak out of turn in the future, unless, of course, you want to be punished again."

"Yes, Senpai," Tenzo's voice was barely even audible to himself, and his eyes finally fell from Kakashi's painfully, mockingly perfect face.

With his sadistic grin never once fading, Kakashi stepped forward. The rest of the group melted away. The Captain stood before his subordinate, as unstoppable as blood from an open wound. He placed his hands on Tenzo's shoulders. Then gradually, moved them to his waist. And then lower…

Yamato woke up.

* * *

The first thing the ANBU did was curse his alarm clock, and not just because it'd managed to go off half an hour later than the time he was sure he'd set it for. The second thing he did was try to remember what the hell he'd set the alarm for in the first place. Shit! Kakashi. He scrambled out of bed.

The final thing Yamato did was to suppress all lasting memory of that _thankfully_ incomplete dream. This took a little longer. But eventually he felt sufficiently composed to face breakfast with his Senpai. Besides, surely the Copy-Ninja was the one man for whom maintaining punctuality wasn't necessary. If you could rely on one thing, it was that however late you were to a meeting, Kakashi – even if he'd organised it – would be at least an hour later. They'd arranged to meet for breakfast, but Yamato was already mentally picking out what he wanted from the lunch menu.

It was only when he arrived at the restaurant, twenty-three minutes later than their agreed time, that Yamato remembered one other detail pertaining to his Senpai's erratic time-keeping. In all the years they'd known each other, Kakashi had never once been late for a meal with him. Shit!

"Ah, Tenzo. I think your food might be getting cold."

Kakashi sat there in the dull glow of the late morning sun; he raised two fingers in a lazy salute. Yamato stared at him, even as he felt himself dying inside.

"Y-you ordered for me?"

Yamato crossed over to his Senpai's table, trying not to inadvertently shed ten years' worth of life experience as Kakashi's cool, condescending eye rolled over him. The ANBU cleared his throat.

"That was hardly necessary, Kakashi. I'm sorry I'm late, but considering the number of times you've kept me waiting in the past, I felt I was due a lie-in."

The cowering recruit inside Yamato uncurled from his permanent ball of shame long enough to glare at the ANBU's shrinking conscience. 'You just set your alarm clock wrongly; you haven't been standing at your best friend's grave since dawn. Besides he's never kept you waiting when it counts.'

The Copy-Ninja shrugged off Yamato's brisk response and gave an easy smile. "I always know what you like to eat in the morning."

In a flash of pain and pleasure, Yamato's dream came back to him. He sunk into the chair opposite Kakashi and began to pick at his tepid food, trying to pretend that it wasn't exactly what he would have ordered if he'd been given the choice.

Their meal progressed as it always did. Reminiscences and pleasantries were passed back and forth and Yamato had long since abandoned his attempts to get Kakashi to call him by his current name. He'd never admit the real reason why the name Tenzo made him feel so uncomfortable more than a decade after it'd first been assigned. And he knew Kakashi would never admit that this was exactly the reason why he still used it. Gradually, their charade of a meeting came to its final act.

"Thanks, Tenzo. That was really wonderful."

Kakashi slowly, gracefully slid the bill over to Yamato's side of the table. During the course of the meal, the ANBU's guilt over his lateness had somewhat abated, and seeing as Kakashi was the one who'd ordered, he really felt that his Senpai should be the one to pay. He opened his mouth to protest –

"Just kidding." Kakashi's eyes curved up into twin crescents and his chuckle made Yamato grip the edge of the table. "I think after all these years it's about time I start acting like your Senpai. After all, you've come a long way since that clumsy, wide-eyed brat first stumbled into my life and made it all so complicated."

"Yes, it's so much simpler now, right, Senpai?" Yamato gave him a sidelong glance and Kakashi, without turning his head, smirked.

The ex-ANBU placed a few coins on the counter and turned to walk away. Yamato kept pace with him. The Copy-Ninja grinned and Yamato had another flashback.

Kakashi ignored the rhetorical question in favour of a more pertinent one. "Your place or mine?" his voice was noncommittal.

"Actually," Yamato began slyly, "I thought we might go to that old training ground, out in the woods, where our squad used to gather to benefit from the pearls of your wisdom."

There was a glint in Kakashi's opal eye. Yamato wasn't playing the coy Kohai today, and he knew that the Copy-Ninja was trying to work out what was going to happen next. Suddenly the perennial target was calling the shots.

Kakashi shrugged and the spell broke. "Why not? I always like reliving the good old days."

Yamato smirked and followed his Senpai all the way, as if he would've been lost without him. It was just the two of them in that rustic old clearing. Clouds were gathering overhead. There were wolves in this stretch of woodland, Yamato knew, but never once had he seen one here when Kakashi was around. There can only be one alpha male in a forest, and beneath even the most battle hardened wolf is a dog that knows when to run away with its tail between its legs. But, take that another way, inside every cowering dog is a wolf who, one day, will bare its fangs whether it ought to or not.

Kakashi gave a wistful sigh and sat himself down at the base of a tree. Yamato remained standing.

The Copy-Ninja looked up at him. "I have some good memories of this place." He smiled. "It's funny: all those life and death missions, all that fire and brimstone, and at the end of it all, this is what I remember most."

Yamato's face held all the nonchalant concentration of a tiger about to pounce. "Yeah, I was thinking about that just last night. I think some of the most valuable things I learnt in the ANBU, you taught me right here, Senpai."

His former Captain, mentor and life-long role model gave a short, insidious chuckle. "That may well be true." He patted the ground beside him. "So, are you joining me or not, Tenzo?"

Yamato paused for a moment and then moved to stand with one foot either side of Kakashi's outstretched legs. Realisation lit up the Copy-Ninja's face like a red dawn.

The ANBU looked down at his Senpai. "No," his voice softened, "I think I'll stand."

Maybe, just maybe, the Copy-Ninja blushed. Then slowly, Kakashi placed his hands either side of his student's hips. He leaned forward…

And in his sleep, Yamato smiled like a wolf.


	3. The Secret

The Secret

Itachi knew all the signs. He knew exactly what torture looked like. Not physical torture, although after six months in the ANBU he knew it was only a matter of time; perhaps that was one of the prerequisites of making Captain. Although whether he would be expected to give or to suffer this torture hadn't yet been made clear. But right now the torture he was about to witness was of a different kind. The other kind. The one that he was most familiar with. More close and personal than a red-hot poker could ever be. This was why he had sent the rest of the team to guard the woodland's perimeter, two kilometres out in each direction. Because Kakashi Hatake, who lay sleeping before him, was about to have a nightmare.

This was no genjutsu, no trick of the mind. But the warning signs were all the same. The Hatake's fists were clenching and unclenching, his nails digging into the flesh of his hands. Sweat was beading his brow. His breathing was shallow. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes were darting wildly, looking for an escape from his mental prison. This put Itachi in something of a quandary.

It would be wrong to wake the sleeping ANBU. Kakashi was his superior, at the moment anyway, it wasn't Itachi's place to intrude. The others in his current squad might have felt differently. They wouldn't last long in the ANBU's ranks. Compassion has no place in an organisation like this. But the Uchiha didn't feel comfortable just standing there waiting for Kakashi's suffering to begin and observing the outcome once it did. Unfortunately though, there were no other options.

It lasted for half an hour. The Copy-Ninja barely had a chance to draw breath in between his screams. Itachi tried to distance his mind from the noise; to find his peaceful centre. Once or twice, he nearly succeeded. Then at last his solemn vigil was over. Kakashi fell still, finally silent and Itachi felt it safe to move once more.

He sat down, maintaining a respectful distance from the Captain's reposing form, but still close enough to hear each ragged, gasping breath; as, in his sleep, Kakashi gradually managed to regain some composure. And the Copy-Ninja was able to keep this charade of peaceful slumber in place right up to the point that Itachi finally felt himself relax. Then Kakashi spoke.

"I'm sorry."

For a moment Itachi thought the man was still sleeping, as this phrase had been repeated so many times, hoarse and pleading, over the last thirty minutes. But this time it was a blunt statement, as you might say instinctively when someone treads on your foot and you know that, really, it's their place to apologise.

In the darkness, Itachi shrugged. "It's fine. I stayed to guard the camp and I didn't want to wake you."

He wondered whether Kakashi would say he wished he had; that his insubordination would have been overlooked for that simple act of mercy. But this is the ANBU. Mercy has no place, and insubordination is a crime punishable by death. Kakashi knew this and did not answer. Neither condoning nor condemning his actions. Probably, like Itachi himself, he wasn't sure which would have been the correct path to take.

Kakashi sat up, then sat still. His breathing was heavier than usual and Itachi could feel his chakra still raging. The swelling waves after the storm itself has past. He wondered whether the man would speak again. He didn't. Just sat there breathing; praying, Itachi imagined, for the gift of serenity. In fact, sitting there like the marble statue of some greater man, Kakashi Hatake seemed perfectly composed. He should have known that Itachi wouldn't judge him. He probably didn't care about the opinions of an Uchiha brat, and an ANBU upstart, anyway. Yes, Itachi knew all about torture. There comes a point, in dreams, when all men are the same. The stronger the man, the stronger the nightmare, until one's own subconscious, the only true Great Leveller, sends them forth as hollow as the next helpless mortal.

These were not the thoughts of a ten year old, Itachi knew that much. But age is measured by experience and like his teenage Captain, he had already seen enough of evil and death – words virtually synonymous – to season him for a lifetime of painful cynicism; however long that struggling life might be. And somewhere in it all, Itachi thought, 'What the hell – that's where I'm destined to end up anyway – I may as well tell him exactly what's on my mind.' After all, every ANBU secretly knew that in front of the Copy-Ninja, insubordination was something of a virtue.

Itachi took a breath. "I knew him."

If the Uchiha hadn't been sitting, he was sure he would have been knocked down by the force of Kakashi's sudden gaze. But it was too late to go back now.

"We were cousins."

The fire in Kakashi's eyes had died almost as quickly as it had flared. His expression was now vacant. But his posture was reminiscent of a tightly coiled spring. Such as one might find on the inside of a mouse trap.

"I only met him a couple of times."

At this point Itachi wasn't sure whether either of them was still breathing. Both sat in rigid anticipation of what the young ANBU would say next. Itachi had lost all control of this one-sided discourse. His words flowed unstoppably to fill the gaping silence no longer punctuated by the Copy-Ninja's tortured screams.

"He seemed like a fool."

Itachi only just managed not to flinch as the surge of killing intent struck him. But when he looked up at Kakashi, the man's face was placid; his form relaxed. He was in control now and Itachi had been warned not to go any further.

The Uchiha shrugged. "I liked him."

Somehow, talking about Obito helped. Helped Itachi come to terms with his own loss. In a perverse way, it was comforting to know that he wasn't the only person to have suffered the pain of losing their best friend. And to have been confronted by the even greater pain of being blamed for the act. The Uchiha Clan liked nothing better than to point fingers. Especially when they felt that their rightful property had been stolen. That was another thing he and Kakashi had in common. Both Shisui and Obito Uchiha lived on, having entrusted their greatest asset to the care of their former best friends. One left eye, to view what further calamity might befall the wretched shinobi world in the years to come. But of course, Kakashi didn't know that. No one did. And Itachi could only hold onto the belief that maybe if Kakashi did know how much they truly had in common, he'd feel that profound connection too.

The kind of fierce, fraternal devotion that Itachi felt towards Sasuke. Strong enough to lay down his life as many times over as necessary. In those darkest, most friendless moments, surrounded by his treacherous clan, he found himself thinking of Kakashi; a man more noble, more honourable and in many respects more powerful than any Uchiha could be. The truth that Itachi so rarely allowed himself to even consider was that, somewhere beneath it all, he longed with all his heart to be one of the Copy-Ninja's precious comrades.

"You should call the others back, you need to leave soon," said Kakashi abruptly but not harshly; discontinuing the previous topic.

"Where will you go?" Itachi asked, privately suspecting that the only reason Kakashi hadn't reprimanded him was that he knew of Shisui's recent death and felt that his comments had simply been a means of Itachi expressing his pain. Maybe that was true.

"Back to Iwa. My mission isn't over," the Jonin answered in a voice so resolved that it defied his previous display of weakness.

Kakashi had only joined them briefly, just to restock his supplies. They were simply patrolling, the ANBU Wolf was dealing commissioned death on silent wings. He'd been doing so for the last five days; dispassionately eliminating his hapless targets. And Itachi knew that he hadn't slept. Only when he'd crossed back over to the Land of Fire in order to rendezvous with them had he finally allowed himself a moment's rest. But clearly even this close to the land where six short years ago his life had crumbled beneath him, Kakashi could not escape the nightmares. And now, after only half a day's respite, and half an hour's tortured sleep, he was going back.

Itachi wondered whether it would be one of _those_ times again. Where with maximum efficiency and minimum regard for his own safety the Copy-Ninja would flawlessly complete a mission. Then drag himself back to the village, hand over his blood-stained mission report and collapse onto the floor of the Hokage's office. Kakashi couldn't go on like that forever; he certainly couldn't _live_ like that. But maybe longevity was an aspiration that had long since faded from the Copy-Ninja's mind.

Surely there was something; something that kept him going through all the pain, the psychological and often physical torture. The service and protection of Konoha. That was something else they both had in common. But Kakashi had more than that. His beloved comrades; his friends. That was what kept the Copy-Ninja going, even as he suppressed his humanity day by day and was wielded like an undimming blade. But what was in it for him? Would the village ever recompense those slaves to the inextinguishable Will of Fire, or was blind servitude enough of a reward in itself? Itachi knew that it was, but still he had to ask.

"Why?" he said. "Why go back there, to that Gods forsaken place?"

Kakashi's gaze was blank with, as always, a hint of passionate defiance smouldering beneath. "It's my mission."

The Copy-Ninja stood up. Itachi followed suit. The Hatake towered over him, an unassailable fortress.

Itachi's fists clenched. "But surely there's more than that. They must have told you, what reward is there when all this is over?"

Kakashi said nothing. Maybe nothing was to be their reward. There were worse things, after all. A brief nothingness. A respite before the next deadly task. It was better than no reward at all. But truly, was it enough?

'_Just one loving embrace…' _his subconscious whispered, without any genuine hope.

Itachi repeated the question. "What's waiting for us at the end of it all?"

An image of Shisui's face flashed before his eyes. Blind. Bloodied. Devoted to the end. He'd died with a smile. A true shinobi. The Copy-Ninja looked at him. The Uchiha stood frozen. The ANBU Captain let his stance relax; all menace fading from his posture as he waited there, immovable.

Silently, Itachi folded himself into Kakashi's arms. Finally, he felt safe. He buried his head into the man's chest, listening to his heart. Steady, unstoppable. Full of so much unspeakable truth.

"Tell me," Itachi whispered, "what is there?"

Kakashi held him tighter, then lifted the young Uchiha's chin until their eyes met. Now Itachi could tell from his gaze. He _did_ know the secret. The Copy-Ninja took a deep, serene breath.

"Death," he said and smiled.


	4. One More Step

One More Step

"Take one more step towards him, and someone's going to get hurt."

One of the Uchiha backed off, directly into Minato's path. Blocking him from the other one who took that step and raised his foot and swung it… hard. Someone got hurt. Minato didn't even hear Kakashi grunt as the foot connected with his solar plexus. Silently, the kid doubled over. Through the blood, the Hatake's eyes flashed a deeper red. The first Uchiha turned away, ready to strike Kakashi again. Exactly how the boy was still standing, Minato wasn't sure.

He sighed. How would Lord Third have handled this? Probably with a sensible, diplomatic solution. Probably with reasonable, mature discussion. While probably in the meantime, Kakashi would stand there taking more abuse. Sometimes diplomacy was not the best option.

"I won't ask you to apologise. You have three seconds to turn around and walk away."

"And if we don't?" said the second Uchiha. His knuckles were coated with Kakashi's blood.

"If you don't then you will be spending the night in Konoha jail. Or dealing with me right now. Your choice."

Both Uchiha's Sharingan flashed to life at that point. His first week as Hokage and it'd already come to this.

"Three."

Out of the corner of his eye, Minato saw Kakashi's knees start to buckle.

"Two."

Why the hell was he doing this? Right or wrong, he wanted to teach those brats a lesson. Personally.

"One."

The second Uchiha's hand twitched, he was going for a kunai. The first one stopped him, his Sharingan fading.

"Leave it. That piece of scum isn't worth the trouble." He began to walk away.

The second Uchiha said nothing. He turned to follow his fellow clansman, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides. He paused for a moment in front of Kakashi's sagging form, and spat at the Hatake's feet.

"You'll pay for what you did, you thieving piece of shit. You'll die like a dog. Just like your bastard father."

It happened faster than Minato could track. The Uchiha was on the floor and Kakashi was standing over him, a kunai in his hand. The boy had been armed this whole time? Why the hell hadn't he defended himself before? It didn't matter; there would be real hell to pay if Minato didn't defuse the situation soon.

The Forth Hokage held out a hand to the stricken Uchiha. The brat ignored it. He got to his feet gracefully, slightly less gracefully wiping blood from his lips with the back of his wrist. Minato couldn't suppress a small, guilty surge of pride. Yeah, he definitely wasn't cut out for this Hokage thing.

The Uchiha said nothing more. Only someone with a serious death wish would rile Konoha's Yellow Flash. Both of them walked away. Only when they were out of sight, did Minato finally relax his battle stance. And only when they were out of sight, did Kakashi sink to his knees on the blood-spattered pavement. His breathing was laboured; his words indistinct.

"You shouldn't have interfered."

Minato wondered whether he should slap the kid first or embrace him. He settled for the simpler option of reprimanding him.

"What the hell were you thinking, Kakashi? Those Uchiha are Jonin, and at least five years older than you."

It was so easy to pretend that Kakashi was still a child, not a fearsome Jonin himself, who'd already killed more than his fair share of elite shinobi. Right now, it was too difficult to accept the truth. The Hatake could have taken those brutes out in a moment had he been so inclined. The fate of the Uchiha who'd slandered the White Fang had testified to that.

Minato shook his head and knelt beside the boy. "Come on," he said, "let's get you home."

He wished in so many ways that Kakashi was still a child, so perfectly innocent – if ever he'd truly been so. But his reason for seeking Kakashi's whereabouts in the first place was more than enough to prove that this was no longer the case. Right now however, that calculating, superlative shinobi was nowhere to be seen. Minato knelt beside him and slowly wrapped the thirteen year old boy in his arms. Silently, Kakashi lost consciousness.

* * *

Minato let a day go by. Then another. Unable to face the task ahead. Then Rin had come to him, crying. She said she'd done what she could, which meant she'd done more than enough. Kakashi would be fine. And Minato couldn't put it off any longer. Three days ago he, the Hokage, had been given a mission. He hadn't been happy about it then and he sure as hell wasn't happy about it now.

The door was unlocked. In fact the door was open. Kakashi was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, eyes closed, hands pressed together in the sign of the tiger. There was a cup of tea on the table, still steaming, and a plate of biscuits. He thought he could see the slight gaps, and maybe a few crumbs, from where the chocolate ones had been carefully removed.

Minato sat down. He had a sip of tea and took a biscuit. Kakashi didn't move. Over the top of his cup, the Hokage gave his student a brief scrutiny. He smiled into his drink. Rin had lived up to her growing reputation. Minato picked up another biscuit. He sent it spinning towards Kakashi. The kid didn't move, until –

A hand shot out and caught the unaccustomed projectile. With meticulous care, without dropping a single crumb, Kakashi lowered his arm, opened his eyes and walked over to the kitchen table. He placed the biscuit back on the plate. Perhaps Minato only liked the plain ones, but Kakashi didn't like them at all. The Hokage shrugged and reached for another.

"You're looking well," he said carefully.

Kakashi stared at him, tracing the movement of the biscuit from plate to mouth. Minato rolled his eyes and lowered his arm. Enough with the confectionery. He got straight to the point. That's a lie. He got straight to _a_ point.

"I can't believe what those bastards did to you. What you _let_ them do to you."

"They were well within their rights."

"No. It's never alright to attack a shinobi of your own village."

"But it's okay to let a shinobi of your own village die in front of you?"

"Damn it Kakashi," Minato slammed his fist down on the table, making the biscuits jump, "that was not your choice to make!"

"No, Sensei, it _was_ my choice. I let it happen. I could have stopped it and I failed."

What was he supposed to reply? Three weeks ago, one of his students had died. Three days ago one of his students had tried to find redemption at the hands of two vengeful, self-righteous idiots. Then this morning one of his students had come to him crying over what'd happened to the other two. Was he supposed to smile and say it'll all be alright?

He smiled. "It'll be alright." He even managed to meet Kakashi's eyes as he said it.

Then Minato stood up and began rifling through his pack. "I came here to give you something, Kakashi. Something that'll help you take your mind off all this." Because killing others is always the best way to cope with your losses, any bereavement councillor will tell you that. In fact, to a shinobi, they probably would.

He drew out a brown paper-wrapped package and placed in down on the table, beside the plate of biscuits. Kakashi didn't touch it. He didn't have to. He looked up.

"Rin wasn't supposed to come here. I thought she'd be working down at the Hospital for at least another week."

That was typical Kakashi. Minato corrected himself, typical _old_ Kakashi. He wondered how long it'd take the kid to accept that sometimes people did things out of something other than a sense of civic duty. Or rather, how long it'd take Kakashi to accept that sometimes he'd be the person they'd be doing it for. Rin was one of the nurses who'd been given the task of dealing with some of the more difficult casualties from the war. Those whom they couldn't save, they analysed. Minato had refused outright to let her be put onto that assignment. And just like three days ago, the Council had outright overruled him. Last time he'd checked, it was his face being carved into the Hokage Monument, not those of the Village Elders. (Which was fortunate as he had a feeling that the combined visages of Koharu, Homura and Danzo would not prove much of a tourist attraction.) As always, the Council worked in the shadows and, as always, they were the real ones in control.

"I'm sure she's seen worse," he said. But he knew nothing she'd witnessed in the wards of Konoha Hospital, surrounded by the dead and dying, had made her cry like that.

"Anyway," he said with emphasis, "open the package whenever you're ready. You'll be reporting to me for duty tomorrow morning." He zipped up his bag and swung it onto his shoulder.

Kakashi stood up and began tidying away the biscuits, brushing the crumbs into a neat pile and pouring the rest of the tea into the sink. He said nothing until Minato was one step away from the door.

"What if I say no?" Kakashi's voice wasn't defiant, merely curious.

Minato smiled at the boy, "You know what?" he said. "That's exactly what I said."

Kakashi nodded. After a moment, he started to rinse the plate, slowly and carefully. The Hokage opened the door then turned to smile at his student.

"This is one of the greatest honours the village can bestow. Only given to the best of the best. I know Sakumo would have been proud of you, Kakashi."

The plate clattered against the side of the basin. Kakashi easily recovered it. He's washing the dishes, Minato thought numbly. Tomorrow he's going to start a new life as an emotionless tool of our own personal greater good. But today he's washing the dishes. They want him to sacrifice his identity, his sense of judgement and the compassion he's only just managed to find. And he's washing the fucking dishes.

Minato let the door close behind him. He stood in the hallway. It was a few moments before he heard Kakashi shut off the tap. It wasn't too late to go back in there, to take it all back and tell the Council where they could shove their pathetic wolf shaped mask. That was a nice touch, he had to admit. The Hatake family had always had a canine streak in them. He heard the sound of slowly tearing paper and turned back towards the door.

_Take one more step and someone's going to get hurt. _

Minato hesitated. His hand on the doorknob.

_You have three seconds… _

The sound of ripping stopped. The War had taken its toll. The village needed new recruits.

_Three_.

There was a rustle and the soft click of porcelain on wood. But why did it have to be him?

_Two._

The safety of the village; the humanity of one man.

_One._

Minato's hand fell to his side; he turned around and walked away.

And as the first muffled sobs reached his ears, he wondered if he'd made the right choice.


	5. The Way the Cookie Crumbles

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

"Kakashi? You home?"

He must be, otherwise he would have secured the door with something more effective than a simple deadbolt lock. Asuma couldn't sense a single trap or chakra seal. He paused for a moment, thinking. For most shinobi, planning an incursion into an ANBU Captain's apartment is something that would take weeks of planning, a high-tech surveillance system and a mind like a crossword dictionary. Asuma would readily admit that he had none of these at his immediate disposal. In fact, Asuma would be the first to admit that he couldn't think like an ANBU. However if it was put to him, he would also admit that he did have a certain knack for thinking like a right conniving bastard of a genius, which meant that there was at least one ANBU he could think like. It was something he'd learnt from the best. When it came to thinking like an idiot he could do that well enough to outsmart most ordinary genii.

He lifted up one corner of the doormat and retrieved the spare key beneath. He smiled at the keychain. It smiled back. That'd definitely been a present from someone. The Copy-Ninja was not the type to attach a keychain to a single key.

He opened the door and stared into the dark hallway. He waited for a few moments, half expecting this to be some elaborate trick; after all, sometimes even ninja got bored. When something dramatic spectacularly failed to happen, he advanced into the apartment. The silence greeted him like an old friend. And his old friend greeted him with silence. Ahead he could see a pale glow illuminating the screen door that led to the kitchen-living room. Ahah! A sign of life! Or possibly dinner.

He slid back the screen. "I'm letting myself in, Kakash…shit!"

It was impossible to digest the scene in front of him, and Asuma knew it'd make him sick if he tried. As he attempted to retreat, something crunched beneath his foot. He looked down in horror. It was a chocolate biscuit.

Scores of its brethren stared back at him accusingly. Asuma averted his eyes, casting them desperately about the room until they settled upon Kakashi. He was in full ANBU gear – minus his porcelain mask which lay grinning to itself on the counter, beside a yellow mixing bowl. Asuma tried casting the genjutsu release on himself, praying that this was all just an illusion; after all, sometimes ninja got _really_ bored.

Nothing happened. The scene around him resolutely refused to dissolve into something more sensible. And Asuma wondered, not for the first time, who the hell had been put in charge of the plot here and how exactly they could be stopped, dissuaded or if it came to it eliminated.

He sighed the sigh known only to those whose current situation is, to the last scrupulous detail, incongruous with everything their character has thus far been devised to deal with. "Now, although I know that this can't really be happening. And you're not here and neither am I. Let's for a moment imagine, hypothetically speaking, that all this is, in inescapable fact, real. With me so far?" Kakashi was crouched over what appeared to be an almond macaroon and made no response. "Right, well, anyway: assuming this is real – which I'm not – all that really needs to be asked is what in Gods' names are all these biscuits doing in your apartment!?"

Kakashi looked up. He smiled vaguely. "I've been poisoned," he said in an offhand manner, "and now I'm making biscuits."

Asuma felt there was a part of this sentence he'd missed. He advanced carefully into the room, trying wherever possible to avoid the needless sacrifice of confectionery lives. He winced as a half-eaten profiterole deflated under his foot. Cream spilled out onto the carpet. If pressed he would have put the pastry quite firmly at the cake end of the scale, it seemed – correction, had seemed – a little out of place, but right now, what didn't?

When he reached Kakashi, feeling somewhat guilty about the trail of crumbs forming in his wake, he knelt down beside him and briefly shared the man's macaroonish scrutiny. After five seconds he couldn't take it anymore.

"Kakashi…" No response. "Oh for the love of –" He dragged the man to his feet and with some effort over to the sofa. Kakashi was more or less a dead weight. It was only when Asuma laid him out that he noticed the only part of Kakashi's body showing any kind of attentiveness at the moment. His left hand was wrapped immovably around the end of a pale green spatula.

After a few moments Kakashi seemed to come back to himself, if only for a fleeting visit. He looked around.

"Asuma… I am going to ask you an important question, and I really am willing to accept any reasonable answer." He paused and looked steadily, analytically around the room, drawing breath for his next sentence – an exercise that, to Asuma's mounting concern, seemed to be causing him some difficulty. "Why the hell are there one hundred and thirty-three assorted biscuits on the floor of my apartment!?"

"You were poisoned," explained Asuma, "and now you're making biscuits."

"Ah, I see." Kakashi seemed satisfied with this explanation, and it was with no further complaint that he promptly lost consciousness.

Asuma had been a shinobi for a while – he knew a thing or two about poison. He'd been Kakashi's friend for even longer and at the moment he knew just about all he needed to know. Some antidotes had to be prepared in a certain way. Some poisons were difficult to counter by conventional means. And some bull-headed idiots never knew when to drop the macho self-sufficient act and get their ass down to the Hospital. Despite this revelation, Asuma smiled. Finally things were snapping back into character. Finally he had a Mission. He knew exactly what he had to do and knew that he didn't have much time to do it. He was, in other words, being a Shinobi.

He walked purposely over to the liquor cabinet, undeniably glad that the biscuits hadn't yet spread over to this side of the room. He pulled out a bottle of saké and didn't bother with any glasses. Against all logic, in these situations alcohol was actually a very effective way of clearing the mind, or at least introducing a more lucid kind of fog.

Asuma took a very long swig. By all rights this should have been some drunken hallucination anyway – there'd clearly just been a mix up concerning the proper order of things. He then held the half empty bottle under Kakashi's nose. The ninja inhaled deeply and immediately his eyes snapped open.

"Drink it," Asuma ordered.

Kakashi, once again noting the state of the room, nodded his agreement and drained the rest of the liquid.

"Okay," said Kakashi at last, in what Asuma had privately termed the man's 'mission voice', "I think I know what the problem is." He fell silent.

"Well…?" Asuma prompted.

"I was supposed to put the sugar in _before_ the butter. And then the two of them were meant to be creamed. Really it was more of a goo."

"I see." Asuma's last thread of hope unceremoniously withered.

"I could sense it with that last batch. I was nearly there. Oh well, back to the mixing bowl."

For the first time in his life, Asuma was starting to doubt the effectiveness of alcohol. Kakashi struggled to stand up. He slipped sideways and threw up on the carpet. He was still holding the green spatula. But cooking utensils or otherwise, this had become a Mission. Kakashi had undoubtedly been poisoned. Even if they got him to the Hospital now it could take hours to concoct the right antidote. The ANBU was close but Asuma knew that in his present state, Kakashi couldn't finish this alone.

He also knew that if Kurenai ever got wind of this, their relationship would end before it'd even properly begun. Well, as far as Asuma was concerned his masculinity could go and die in a hole somewhere. Kakashi needed him. The Jonin strode over to the kitchen. Or at least that was his intention. Supporting almost all of Kakashi's weight, the movement was really more of a purposeful stagger. When he arrived, he set Kakashi down on one of the kitchen chairs and when he was sure the ANBU wouldn't slide off again he made his way over to the worktop. _This_ time he strode. Lighting a fresh cigarette with one hand and deftly tying the pink apron strings behind his back with the other, Asuma peered curiously at the contents of the mixing bowl.

Beige was a predominant theme, and hints of brown suggested the presence of chocolate chips, or possibly raisins, or both, and there was a distinct aroma of cinnamon. This would have to be explored in greater detail before he could pick up where Kakashi had left off. Symptoms so far, he thought as he stirred: loss of balance, consciousness and possibly memory – also apparent nausea, although if he'd truly just tasted one hundred and thirty-three different biscuits this was probably less a symptom of the ailment than a side-effect of the cure.

Asuma cast about for more clues and was not disappointed. On the far side of the counter, propped against the toaster was a bag of letters, in twenty-six shades of garish inedibility. In between the open bag and the mixing bowl, there was a small pile of these letters on the counter. Assuming them to be of some significance – and at a loss for anything more useful to do right now – Asuma arranged them into alphabetical order and spread them out on the surface of the counter. There were twenty of them in total. They read:

A, A, B, D, E, H, H, I, N, O, P, P, R, T, T, V, V, Y, Y, Z.

Asuma wondered briefly if Kakashi had been trying to work out the code for some curative compound. He tried a few permutations. All the right elements were there for Adenosine, but there weren't enough of them. He needed two more 'O's for Atropine. All the letters were there for Cyproheptadine, but really that was more for treating allergic reactions than poison. And besides, half of the letters he'd picked out weren't even on the periodic table.

Perhaps they were intended to form an anagram, a note detailing the particulars of Kakashi's predicament. Something that would with any luck help explain what the hell had gotten the idiot into this situation in the first place. Well, Asuma had no objection to word games, although he was well aware that his skills in the area were unlikely to rival those of the man who'd potentially created this puzzle. But seeing as this man was currently lying with his head on the kitchen table, connected to the world of the living only by a green spatula, assistance was unlikely to be forthcoming. He tried a few sentences out for size.

Let's see, he thought, A, A, B, D, E, H, H, I, N, O, P, P, R, T, T, V, V, Y, Y, Z…

"Bad zephyr pivot thy van?" Possibly a reference to Wind-element techniques, otherwise not very much help.

"Depth-vizor by navy path?" Could that be a piece of nautical equipment? Perhaps something to do with Water Jutsu?

"Ah, vet by van, drop thy zip…?" He didn't even know where to start with that one. And if that was the intended message then really Asuma wanted to know no more about it.

He decided to return to the letters later and for now to search for other clues that might potentially help him save Kakashi's life. He regarded the biscuits scattered about the room. Some of them varied slightly but in general, they were all pretty much the same size. In fact they were all the size one might expect of a biscuit, about six centimetres across. When Asuma was sure that the mixture in the bowl was of the appropriate consistency, he tried arranging the little balls of dough in the tray to match these established dimensions. There was enough dough for exactly nineteen. Placing the tray in the oven, Asuma looked around the apartment's floor once again. It took him several minutes and a couple of basic calculations to realise that this had been the case for the other seven batches as well.

In fact, the only anomaly was that solitary cream-puff; whose filling was still stuck to the edge of Asuma's sandal. Perhaps that had been in the initial experimental phase of this process. Asuma knelt down to clean away the offensive substance. He didn't recall normal cream being quite so viscous. Asuma felt compelled to return to the pastry, or what was left of it, for a closer inspection. He dragged a finger through the cream and paused with it half way to his mouth. He thought better of it and sniffed the off-white substance instead. His nose wrinkled. And his mind leapt.

_Ting! _

The oven chimed in its timely contribution. But before Asuma went to remove the biscuits, he first went over to the fridge. And there, at the back of the top shelf, it was. He withdrew the carton of crème fraîche, wondering just how apt that label was. He looked at the date on the top of the carton. The 28th, well that was okay. Then he looked at the year. Then he looked at Kakashi. Then back at the carton in his hand. Oh Gods.

Surely not. Please, please let that not be it! This was meant to be a Mission, damn it! And if so… then what the hell had all those biscuits been for? Asuma threw the half-empty carton into the trash. Kakashi was not the sort of person to miss these things. Well, he did always say it was important to look 'underneath the underneath', perhaps now he'd learn that sometimes it's also useful to look on top of the toppings, at either the layer of coagulated cream so thick it could be cut with a knife, or above that at the date emblazoned fairly indiscreetly on the top of the carton.

Asuma opened the oven and removed the final batch of nineteen biscuits, no longer knowing what he was meant to do with them. He saw the carton looking up at him from the trash can and shuddered. He placed the tray on the counter. It must have made him delirious, he decided. The cure for food poisoning is not, and never has been making more food. But why was he even baking in the first place? Before he'd even changed out of his mission gear! Come to think of it, wasn't Kakashi back a day later than he was supposed to be? Not that it would be particularly unusual if he was. After all, in the ANBU you returned when the mission was finished or you didn't return at all. Any more specific time reference was just a guideline, or possibly a prayer.

Asuma let today's date float amiably through his mind. It wasn't demanding any attention and it was a while before he gave it any. Then he realised what date it actually was. And then he realised why he knew this. Nineteen. Something Kakashi had mentioned only in passing. In fact, it'd been such an off-hand remark that Asuma wasn't even sure he could recall exactly who it'd been in reference to. But he had enough of the pieces now.

There was a groan from the kitchen table. Kakashi was coming round. And Asuma knew that he didn't want to be there when he did. He couldn't be certain that he wouldn't choke the idiot to death with his own apron strings. But he'd started and so he couldn't not finish. He turned back towards the counter. The cinnamon and raisin biscuits steamed serenely. Asuma clenched his fists. On one hand Kakashi was his friend and it was his duty to help him; that much hadn't changed. On the other hand, Asuma knew exactly where he wanted to shove those biscuits, and that wretched green spatula too.

By a hairsbreadth, fealty won out. He picked up the letters and one by one pressed them gently into the surface of the first thirteen biscuits, now certain he knew what he was doing. The next five he placed somewhat more hesitantly but was pretty sure he'd got the order right. Finally he got to the nineteenth biscuit. On this he placed the last two letters. Upside-down. He then put the mixing bowl in the sink and swept the counter. This was perhaps, he reasoned, overly charitable in the circumstances. Then again, there were still over a hundred biscuits lying in varying degrees of wholeness about the floor, as well as a single, downtrodden profiterole. Asuma gave a small smile. He steadily made his way back through the carnage. When he reached the front door he carefully placed the spare key back under the mat. He then shut the door behind him; causing an elderly man, two storeys down, on the other side of the building to start in his sleep.

And back in the apartment, in the middle of the kitchen counter, a tray of biscuits was contriving to radiate an air of existential satisfaction – that and a pleasing aroma of cinnamon – as they silently beamed their message to the world:

H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y T-E-N-Z-O ^^


End file.
